Max

by Tara Crescent

  That’s the fun part. But success has a dark underbelly. The internet hates my guts. Comic strip artists all over the world are angry with me, accusing me on Reddit forums of not paying my dues. ‘Undeserved’ is the kindest thing I’ve read.

  Not Mike and Eva. I’ve known Mike for most of my life, and he’s been nothing but happy for me, thrilled that I’m moving back home after so many years of living in Asia and Europe. I don’t know Eva very well, but I like her already. She’s good-natured, she adores Mike, and she watches football and drinks beer. She seems awesome.

  Mike laughs as well, putting his arm around Eva’s waist and drawing her close. “Don’t listen to her, Cole,” he advises, with a fond look at his fiancée. “This is a win-win situation. I get to live with Eva and you have a place to stay while your house gets renovated.”

  Win-win. I snort. Mike works in HR at one of the big banks, and it’s rubbed off in his vocabulary. “Dude, don’t give me your bullshit jargon.” I stretch lazily. “You two want to go find a beer?”

  The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. One Saturday two weeks ago, I was on a beach in Phuket when I received a phone call from my mom, saying my dad had fallen off the roof and broken his leg. That was the push I needed to finally move back home. In the space of fourteen days, I’ve packed up my life in Thailand, fitting all my possessions into a single suitcase. I’ve bought a house in Toronto with some of my royalty money, hired a contractor to transform it into something livable, and taken up temporary residence at Mike’s. A beer isn’t what I need. Hours and hours of sleep is what my body is begging for.

  “I have a better idea,” Eva says. “Mike’s building is having its summer party tonight. Why don’t we head down there, and introduce you around to the neighbors?”

  When she says neighbor, my brain flashes immediately to the woman I met a few nights ago. Sadie Sterling. Pert and pretty and adorably indignant, and the entire time she was chewing me out, looking like an irate librarian with her black-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose, she’d had no idea that her white shirt was almost completely see-through. Thinking about our encounter, a smile starts to tug at my lips. I wonder if she’ll be there. I’d very much like to see her again. “A building party?”

  Mike, who thinks he has to work at convincing me, nods enthusiastically. “That’s a great idea, sweetie,” he says. “Cole, you’re going to love living here. Everyone’s super friendly.”

  Not everyone, I think to myself. Sadie’s a little spitfire. It’s a good thing I like spitfires. Very, very much.

  * * *

  The possibility of seeing Sadie again is not the only thing that has me ready to go to a party. There’s another darker reason. Dread.

  I released my first book on a lark. I’d been bartending in Thailand, and when business was slow at the pub, I’d draw my comic strip about Hammer, nerd programmer by day, superhero by night. One evening, a customer at the bar took a look at it, and convinced me to self-publish it. I was skeptical until he pointed out that it was free. “What do you have to lose, dude?” he asked.

  So I spent some time learning how to publish a book, and once I’d figured that part out, I pushed a button and Hammer was released into the world.

  The first week, I sold one copy. The buyer was my mother.

  The second week, I received my first review. A reader had liked my book and he’d written a lovely essay on how funny and subversive he found it. It was amazing.

  Something peculiar happened in the following month. People started to buy the book, people I wasn’t related to. They recommended it to their friends. They sent me emails telling me how much they loved it, and I responded, somewhat in awe that perfect strangers were reading and enjoying my little comic strip.

  Then one day, it blew up. I sold more than a thousand copies in a twenty-four-hour period. To this day, I don’t know why. And the sales kept coming, and with them, royalty checks.

  For the first time in my life, I have money, success and fame, and I’m terrified that it’s not real. That it’ll disappear faster than I can say Hammer. With that fear comes the most crippling writer’s block in the world. I can’t draw. Fans are clamoring for a sequel, and I have nothing. The pressure is stifling.

  If I’m home, all I’m going to do is look at my drafting table and wonder why my creativity has deserted me.

  “Sure,” I respond to Mike, hiding all of it, all the worry and the panic and the fear behind an easy grin. “Let’s go check this party out.”

  4

  Cole:

  When Mike had said ‘building party’, I figured I was in for a generically decorated condo party room, with a couple of sad bags of Tostitos and a few bottles of Coke and warm beer as refreshments, and the average age of the attendees hovering at about seventy-five.

  Unfortunately, I’m dead right, and the reason I came to the party – Sadie – is nowhere to be seen. I’m about to suggest that we leave and find alternate entertainment when Eva speaks up, a tone of surprise in her voice. “Oh, look Mike, there’s Sadie. She never comes to these things, does she?”

  I turn to the direction of Eva’s gaze and see my new neighbor, dressed in a pair of cream pants and a black t-shirt, her brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Strands of hair have escaped free and frame her face, softening the look. She’s not wearing those sexy glasses today, and without them, she looks younger and more vulnerable.

  My pulse races with anticipation. Sadie’s been in my thoughts far too many times this last week.

  Mike looks up as well. “Yeah, that’s strange. Cole - Sadie’s in the apartment next to me.” He lifts his arm in a wave. “Hey, Sadie,” he calls out, gesturing her over.

  She lifts her head up and sees Mike and Eva, and when she recognizes them, she smiles and…

  It transforms her face, that smile. She goes from being slightly better than average looking to beautiful faster than I can comprehend. Still smiling, she starts threading her way toward us.

  “Cole, you’ll like Sadie,” Eva says in an aside to me. “I think her job is book-related in some way.”

  She works in the industry? It makes no sense whatsoever, but suddenly, my excitement drains away and I’m gripped by an irrational panic. I’m not a household name by any means, but the story of my success is pretty well-known in publishing circles. And I don’t want either recognition or judgment. I just want to hide, to lay low and hope my muse, that flighty, unpredictable goddess, reappears. “What does she do?”

  Mike doesn’t hear the strain in my voice. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I’m not sure she ever said. She generally keeps to herself.”

  “Don’t tell her what I do,” I beg him. “Please. I can’t cope with the attention right now.”

  Eva gives me a concerned look, but Mike just nods. “What should I tell her you do?” he asks, but there’s no time to respond, because Sadie has walked up to us. “Eva,” she says warmly, pulling her in for a hug. “It’s been forever. Hey Mike, how’s it going?”

  Mike hugs her too, and I feel a brief, odd moment of envy. Everyone’s getting hugged except Cole. “Sadie, this is my friend Cole,” Mike says, introducing me. “He just moved back to Toronto, and he’s going to be living in my apartment for the next two months.”

  She finally meets my gaze, and to my surprise, her eyes twinkle with amusement. “I’ve already met Cole,” she confesses, sounding sheepish. “I thought he was a burglar breaking into your apartment. I’m afraid I wasn’t very friendly.” She grins and holds her hand out to me, and I shake it, marveling at how soft her skin is. “Welcome to the building, Cole.”

  Eva turns to me, her gaze sharp. “You’ve already met Sadie, Cole? You didn’t mention it…”

  Ah, that cursed womanly intuition. I can see Eva look at the two of us, mentally adding two and two and coming up with seven, and I know I’m in for some extended questioning when the three of us are alone once more. Since there’s nothing I can do to prevent that, I focus on Sadie. “I�
��m afraid I wasn’t entirely coherent that day,” I apologize. “A few too many celebratory drinks.”

  She laughs. “Yes, that was rather obvious. You kept leaning against the wall to support yourself. I was worried you were going to pass out, and I was going to have to drag you in.”

  “You can manhandle me anytime,” I tell her, with a wink, and her face heats. God, she’s pretty when she blushes. “Thank you for rescuing me that night. I owe you one.”

  “I rescued you?”

  “Without your help, I’d have tried to fit that key in the keyhole all night long,” I admit with a grimace. “I kept squinting at it, but everything insisted on looking hazy and unfocused.”

  She chuckles and takes a half-step closer to me. “I was just being neighborly…” she says, her voice husky. Then she notices Eva and Mike, who are both gaping at us, openly eavesdropping on our conversation, and she steps back, her cheeks coloring. “So, what do you do, Cole?”

  “I’m a …” I start, and then I freeze, my brain going completely blank on me. There are several occupations I could use - in Turkey, I taught English as a second language. In Thailand, I tended bar. I’ve been a football coach and a cab driver and a thousand other things, but in that moment, I can think of none of them.

  The seconds tick by and Sadie’s looking at me curiously, waiting for me to answer. Finally, Mike comes to my rescue. “Cole’s an escort.”

  Wait, what?

  “No, no, Mike,” Eva chides. There’s a note of laughter in her voice as she takes in my poleaxed expression. “It’s not called an escort, honey. Cole’s a manservant. Sadie, you’ve read about them, haven’t you? They’ve been in the press lately. They’ll feed you grapes and powder your nose. Right, Cole?”

  I don’t know what’s in the beer, but my friends have clearly lost their minds.

  I’m about to open my mouth to contradict their story, when I notice the look on Sadie’s face. I’m expecting to see politeness or well-concealed revulsion, or even open lust. What I don’t expect to see is muted longing. “An escort?” she asks. “That’s… interesting.”

  “Manservant,” I correct, committing to the role, my curiosity aroused by her reaction. “There is a difference, you know.”

  Her eyes twinkle with merriment. “For your sake, I hope so,” she says. “The book I’m reading at the moment has a pretty graphic section on Henry the Eighth’s syphilis.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Most historians think that Henry never had syphilis.”

  Sadie absorbs that, surprise written all over her face. Damn it, I guess escorts aren’t supposed to know anything about the British monarchy. If I need to keep up my cover story, I better call my buddy Seamus for some pointers. “Do you enjoy history, Cole?”

  “Not really,” I reply honestly. “But I like to travel, and you pick up all kinds of trivia on the road.”

  “And you just moved back to Toronto. Where were you before that?”

  “Thailand for three years,” I reply. “Before that, China, Croatia, Turkey.” I shrug. “All over.”

  There’s a flash of envy in her eyes. “Must be nice,” she says. “To never commit to a place, to pick up and move rather than put down roots. Do you like it?”

  I shrug. “There’s so much in the world to see and do,” I tell her. “Why stick to one place? I’ve never been interested in settling down, getting married and having the two point five children society tells me I must have.”

  “Why are you back now?”

  “My seventy-year old father thought he could shingle the roof on his own.” I roll my eyes. “He fell off and broke his leg. I’m here mostly to prevent my mom from strangling him.”

  She chuckles. “How long does that take?”

  “I have Mike’s apartment for sixty days,” I reply. “After that, who knows?” Though I’ve bought a house, I have no faith in my ability to stay in Toronto. Houses can be rented out. I’ve always answered the call of the road.

  Of course, there’s never been a reason to stay.

  Eva and Mike have wandered away to talk to another couple, and the two of us are alone. “And you?” I ask her. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an editor,” she replies. “Romance novels.”

  She doesn’t seem like a starry-eyed romantic. She’s too sassy for that. “No ring? No husband, boyfriend? Or are you waiting for the perfect guy?”

  “Wow, you are direct, aren’t you?” She flashes me a tart look. “Or are you just recruiting for clients?”

  I have to laugh. The situations I get myself into. She thinks I’m looking for a sugar momma when I’m fighting an attraction to her that’s as strong as anything I’ve ever experienced before in my life? “I don’t really have trouble finding clients.”

  “I bet…” She shakes her head. “To answer your question, I can tell you from experience that the perfect guy doesn’t exist.” Her mouth twists into a frown. “I used to be a romantic…” she mutters. “Not anymore.” I can’t read the tone in her voice, and her expression becomes withdrawn. She gestures to the drink in her hand and nods politely. “I think I need a refill. See you around, Cole.”

  What did I say? She went from interested to icy in a flash.

  But as she walks away, her ass swaying pertly in those tight pants she’s wearing, something interesting and unexpected happens. I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in months. My fingers are itching to pick up a pencil and draw.

  This is good. This is really good.

  5

  Sadie:

  Later that evening, all I can do is reproach myself for acting like a jerk.

  Devil’s sprawled in my lap once again, all seventy-five pounds of hot, hairy dog. Blue sits on the armchair across from the two of us and stares at us unblinkingly. No doubt she’s caught a glimpse of the bottom of her food bowl and has convinced herself that she’s starving. She will continue to glare at me until I fill it up to the brim again, but since I don’t have the energy to push Devil off, she’s going to have to wait.

  There was absolutely no need for me to be rude to Cole. Yes, I was consumed with envy when he described all the countries he’d lived in. He’s experiencing life in a way I can only dream about from the safety of my Toronto apartment, but that’s no excuse. Part of me is tempted to get up, knock on his door and apologize.

  It's just that when he asked me if I was waiting for the perfect guy, I had a sudden flashback to the younger, more naïve version of me. The one who had believed in love at first sight, and had married a near-stranger because he swept her off her feet.

  That clusterfuck of a marriage in the past. I won’t let the flutters of attraction I feel for Cole interfere with the life I’ve created for myself since the divorce. I’m not looking for a relationship, and I’m not looking for commitment.

  But sex? My God, I miss sex.

  Cole’s an escort. I should be repulsed, but instead, I’m fascinated. I’ve only had sex a handful of times since my marriage ended three years ago. And my job, editing steamy romance novels for New York Times and USA Today best-selling writers, leaves me horny far more often than not. I wish I were ballsy enough to hire someone to take care of my needs… maybe someone like Cole?

  So do it, Sadie.

  Could I? Anna and Patti are right when they accuse me of never taking any risks. I’ve been stuck in a rut since Jude. Adventure has taken a back seat to stability. Going on vacation year after year to London is only one example. I eat in the same dozen restaurants and I order the same thing on the menu time after time. I’m boring.

  A wild, passionate sexual encounter is exactly what I need. And Cole does this for a living, doesn’t he? Sure, in the articles I’ve read about manservants, everyone is always clear to point out that sex isn’t included in the service. But Cole exudes sexual energy. He must be game for a little extra action on the side.

  I’ll ask him what his rates are, I tell myself. Then, if I can afford it, perhaps I’ll buy myself an evening of hot and sexy.
<
br />   6

  Cole:

  I don’t have time for women that blow hot one moment and cold, the next.

  That’s what I tell myself as I drift toward Mike’s desk, turning on the light at the side so that the surface is clearly illuminated. I find my notebook and a bundle of pencils, and pull a chair up so I can work.

  For days, weeks, months, I’ve stared at the blank page and nothing’s happened. No magic, no art, nothing. For someone who has doodled their entire life, the absence has been stark. As if someone hacked off a piece of my soul, and I’m destined to go through life half-complete, forever missing that part of me that I didn’t know I needed to stay whole.

  And in classic Cole Mitchell form, rather than force myself through it, I’ve been avoiding confronting the problem. Tonight, things are different. Now, the pictures appear in my head and my hand races to keep up. I’m in the zone.

  I work for hours. The night sky gradually lightens to dawn, but I don’t notice, held captive as I am in the vice-like grip of inspiration. I only put my pencils down when my phone rings at seven in the morning. It’s my mom.

  “How’s dad?”

  “Cranky,” she sighs. “He doesn’t like being bed-ridden.”

  No, he wouldn’t. My dad is seventy, but thinks he’s twenty-one. Last week, in addition to the house-buying bullshit, I spent hours in the hospital at his bedside, taking turns with my sister Cathy and my brother Clark to relieve my mother so she could get some sleep. I think we’ve all aged ten years in the last fourteen days as a result. “Remind him he has a broken leg.”

  “That never struck me, Cole,” she responds dryly. “You coming home for lunch today?”